As the evening wore on, the alcohol took hold, and the Greeks began telling sad stories of their fallen glory. Alexander was cited often. As was Philip of Macedon. But Alexander was the name that fell from every lip most often.
"Tell us. Tell us what your histories say of Alexander," the Greek prime minister insisted.
Chiun pursed his lips. "The House served Philip, Alexander's father."
"Yes, yes, of course. Philip was a great man, in his way. But he was no Alexander, who was a true Greek. Favor us with tales of Alexander, who was truly great."
"I do not know those stories, I am sorry," Chiun said hastily. "The greatness of Alexander came at a time when the House was preoccupied with the Peacock Throne."
"The Persians were great, but not so great as Alexander, who conquered them," a cabinet minister said loudly. "But surely you have tales to tell us."
"Go ahead, Little Father," Remo prompted. "Tell them."
"I know these tales imperfectly and would not wish to sully the memory of your Alexander with my poor attempts."
Someone pointed at Remo. "You! Tell us stories if you know any."
"He knows nothing, being but a servant of Sinanju," Chiun said quickly.
"I'm a full Master," Remo said hotly.
"A servant full of ambition," Chiun sniffed. "He aspires to head the House."
And everyone laughed at the idea of a white American heading the greatest house of assassins in human history.
"You wouldn't laugh if Chiun told you the true story of Alexander and the House of Sinanju," Remo said.
Chiun's eyes flashed in warning.
"What story?" asked the prime minister. "We must hear this story."
Since he'd eaten his fill and was growing tired of Greek men trying to kiss him with their wine-dyed lips, Remo decided it was time for a little payback.
"When Alexander was trying to conquer the world, the House was between emperors. Alexander brought down the Persian empire, which was the best client the House had in those days, and so when the Master at that time heard about it, he swore to get Alexander."
A hard silk-clad elbow caught Remo in the ribs.
"Silence," Chiun hissed in Korean.
"Go on, go on!" the Greeks urged.
Chiun interrupted. "He knows no more, being only an apprentice Master of Sinanju."
Remo grinned. Score one for him.
"He must tell. We do not know this story. Please."
"It is only a fable," said Chiun.
"We accept fables. Many of the stories we tell are fables. We prefer fables to true stories, for they are truer."
"Okay," said Remo. "The Master sent a message to Alexander by handpicked messenger. When he got it, Alexander threw it away because it was written in Korean. He didn't know Korean."
A sea of Greek faces looked perplexed.
"Yes, continue, please."
"The handpicked messenger had a disease. Alexander caught the disease from the messenger. Then he died."
The faces looked expectant. "Is there no more to the story?"
"Just what the message said."
"Yes…?"
The hard elbow caught Remo in the ribs again, just as—but not before—he said, "Gotcha."
"Gotcha?"
A hushed silence fell over the state dining room.
Whispering began.
"Sinanju slew our precious Alexander," a man whispered in Greek. "It was not a natural death. It was an assassination. All these centuries and we did not know."
"And after all these centuries, we have invited the filthy murderers into our country," said the Greek prime minister in a voice as tight as a violin string.
Hearing this, Chiun groaned aloud.
"Guess it's time to seek our fortune elsewhere," Remo undertoned. "Huh, Little Father?"
Chiun said a steamy nothing.
They were allowed to leave. Their departure was attended by a cold silence and stony regards.
On the way to the Athens airport, their taxi—they were denied use of an official car—was strafed by matched Greek warplanes.
Remo removed the door on his side and, leaning out of the hurtling cab, flung it up into the sky. It clipped off a wing, and that was the end of one plane.
The other followed at a respectful distance, strafing only for show.
Settling back in his seat, Remo said in a contrite voice, "Sorry. You ticked me off back there."
"I will forgive you if you forgive me first," said Chiun.
"Let me think about it. My feelings are really hurt."
"My feeling are more hurt than your feelings, so you must be the first to grovel."
"Groveling is out."
"Then you may go to your grave unforgiven."
"You first," said Remo.
As the taxi careened through the choked streets, evading an intermittent, steely rain, Chiun's mood brightened.
"It is just like the old days where glorious danger lurked everywhere," he cackled.
Remo just rolled his eyes.
Chapter Thirty-eight
The president of South Korea smoked a filtered Turtle Ship cigarette as he listened to the report from the director of Korean Central Intelligence. The Minister for unification sat bolt upright, his features slack with concern.
Seoul traffic hummed and blared outside the conference room of the presidential palace.
"Radio Pyongyang has announced it controls Sinanju," he said simply.
A grave hush filled the smoky room.
At length the president said, "We are all doomed."
"Northern disinformation cannot be ruled out," the Korean CIA director added.
The president slammed his fist on the table. "Why did the Americans let him slip from their grasp! There is no protection from the Master of Sinanju. It is said he can walk through walls, swim underwater for a day without exhaling and in proper light seem invisible."
"Disinformation," the director repeated.
"We cannot assume that! We must know!"
"Our spies in Pyongyang know only what they hear, which is what is coming out of Pyongyang and not necessarily the truth."
"We must know!" the president repeated. "It means my life. All our lives."
The Korean CIA director looked helpless. "What can we do?" he asked.
The unification minister opened his mouth hesitantly. "We could consult a mansin," he said quietly.
The Korean CIA director blinked through the haze of his own Milky Way cigarette smoke. "A fortuneteller?"
"No," the president said firmly. "Better. A mudang!"
Ah, they agreed. A mudang, yes. Much better. Everyone knew that country witches were more far-seeing than city witches.
Twenty minutes later an unmarked black Pony sedan conveyed them from Seoul to the countryside, where they would learn the truth.
Chapter Thirty-nine
In Hanoi, Remo and Chiun were met by generals who offered gold and jewels beyond compare, then escorted them to an armored vehicle that had a steel ring welded to the top.
A giant helicopter dropped out of the sky, hooked onto the ring and lifted the armored vehicle up into the air only to drop it down the mouth of an extinct volcano. When the two victims subsequently climbed into the cockpit with him, the pilot was only too happy to fly them to the destination of their choice. And he got to keep his head.
In Kabul there were more generals with smiling faces and plastic charges strapped about their ample middles. They approached with the helpless stares of living dead men, and before their fingers touched the detonators in their sweaty palms, Remo and Chiun threw themselves into high reverse and outran the flying bone fragments and shreds of human meat.
On an Air India flight, a dewy-eyed stewardess with green fingernails tried to scratch them. But her nails smelled not of enamel but extract of cobra, and Remo caught up her hands while Chiun methodically extracted her nails one by one and made her swallow them.
After that the other dewy-eyed, green-nailed stewardesses sat very still in their seats and offered them no food or drink.